The Ribbajack: And Other Haunting Tales Page 2

  Soames and Wilton obeyed with alacrity. It did not pay to annoy Archibald Smifft.

  The headmaster sneezed vigorously, his hair still damp from Zappit, the lilac-scented fly spray. As he wiped his eyes on a fresh kerchief, a knock sounded on his study door. He sneezed as he called out, “En taaachah!”

  “Gesundheit, Headmaster!”

  Mrs. Twogg entered, clad in a crisply starched and laundered uniform. She sat down, shuddering slightly at the memory of cockroaches roaming around in her pocket. “Headmaster, something must be done about the Smifft boy! These dreadful things he is practising will bring the school to rack and ruin. I insist that you act immediately!”

  Mr. Plother stifled another sneeze, looking blankly at her. “Smifft, ah, yes. Er, what do you suggest we do, Matron?”

  She consulted her fob watch. It was shortly before three. “Invite the school chaplain to tea, we must seek his advice. Men of the cloth usually know about exorcising demons and countering the forbidden arts.”

  Mr. Plother picked up the phone and began dialling. “It’s worth a try, I suppose, but the Padre may be a bit out of his depth with occult matters.”

  Archibald perched cross-legged on the bed. From under beetling brows he scanned his quaking dormitory companions. They waited on his words with bated breath. “Listen, you two, I need a monster, a really scary one. So, have you got any ideas?”

  Wilton stammered, “A m-monster, wh-what d’you m-mean?”

  Their interrogator gnawed thoughtfully on a dirt-encrusted fingernail. “I’m not quite sure exactly. Put it this way, Wilty. What could frighten the daylights out of you, eh?”

  Wilton’s answer was not overly helpful. “Y-you, S-Smifft.”

  The malevolent stare turned to Soames. “What about you?”

  A nervous tic began afflicting the boy’s right eye. “Er, you, I suppose.”

  Their tormentor bounded from the bed, causing both boys to jump with fright as he exploded at them. “You suppose? Listen, you two dithering dummies, you’d better start coming up with some proper answers. You know what happened to Bamford. I can conjure up bees and wasps, you know. Ones that can give nasty stings to a chap’s rear end. Then chaps have to drop their pants so Matron can treat them. So you’d better talk fast, understand?”

  Tears beaded in Wilton’s eyes. His lip began quivering. “Wh-what d-d’you want us to say, S-Smifft?”

  Archibald pounded the bedside locker top. “Don’t you dare start blubbering, Wilton, just answer my question. What really terrifies you, eh? A bogeyman, a vampire, a ghost, a spook! What? Tell me!”

  Wilton practically yelped his answer. “The dark! I’ve always been frightened of the dark.”

  Archibald nodded. “So that’s why you’re always lurking under the sheets with your torch on after lights out. Huh, you’d better come up with something good, Soames.”

  Peterkin Soames blinked hard, pausing awhile before he spoke. “The only think I can think of is the Ribbajack.”

  Smifft’s mad eyes lit up hopefully. “What’s the Ribbajack? Tell me all about it. Now!”

  Soames tried to avoid Archibald’s maniacal stare. He told what little he knew about the oddly named Ribbajack. “My father is with the B.O.C.S., that’s the British Overseas Colonial Services. Actually, he’s an assistant district commissioner in Burma, stationed in an area called the Paktai Hills. He says it’s a rather strange country, with lots of beliefs and superstitions which we know very little about.”

  Archibald interrupted abruptly. “What about this Ribbajack?”

  Soames flinched under the savage intensity of the question. “Actually, I have one of Daddy’s letters from last term. It mentions the Ribbajack. Would you like to see it, Smifft?”

  Archibald was in a frenzy of anticipation. “Yes, yes, get it!”

  Grabbing the large manila envelope from Soames, he pulled from it several vellum sheets of B.O.C.S. crested writing paper. There was also a photograph of a British couple and an elderly Burmese gentleman standing on the verandah of a large, elegant bungalow. It had writing on the back: Yrs truly, the memsahib, and Ghural Panjit, my interpreter. Chindwin 1935.

  Archibald gave the letter to Soames. “Read it out loud.” Soames steadied his voice and read the text.

  My dearest Peterkin,

  How are you, old chap, doing rather well at school, I hope. Mother sends her love. Sorry we cannot make it home for the hols. But chin up and keep smiling, otherwise I’ll send the Ribbajack to sort you out (ha ha, only joking of course). Bet you’ve never heard of a Ribbajack. Young chaps like you would be jolly interested in it. Let me explain.

  The locals out here blame all misfortunes and deaths to it. Missing persons, and so on, it’s always the Ribbajack. I first heard of it when my interpreter, a splendid fellow named Ghural, accompanied me to settle a dispute. We travelled to a village high in the hills where it seemed a man had gone missing. Of course, everyone said it was due to the Ribbajack.

  Apparently, the local carpenter had promised his daughter in marriage to a herdsman. The dispute arose when this herdsman accused the carpenter of cheating him on the dowry price of the girl, a common enough occurrence out here. Well, pretty soon after, the carpenter went missing without trace. Quite frankly, it was my considered opinion that the herdsman had killed the carpenter and done away with the body. He was a proud man, you see, and could not be seen as a laughingstock by the villagers. Ghural, and all the locals, insisted that the carpenter had been taken by a Ribbajack, so there was no point in searching for him. I was surprised at Ghural, as he is a well-educated man. It took some persuading to get him to tell me about the Ribbajack, but here’s what he said.

  “Sir, if a man believes in the Ribbajack, then he can create one in his own mind, and it will come alive. If a man has a hated enemy whom he wants to be rid of, here is what he does. He makes a picture in his imagination of a monster. It is the most horrible creature he can think of, with the body of a crocodile, three eyes, long poison teeth, and other such dreadful features. The harder he concentrates, the more real his Ribbajack becomes. Then, in the darkness, one midnight hour, the creature will appear to him, as solid as you or I, sir.

  “It will speak to him thus. . . .

  ‘From the pits of darkness in your mind,

  I am Ribbajack, born out of human spite.

  Say the name of the one I am brought to find,

  command me to take him forever from sight.’

  “From that night on, sir, the Ribbajack is never again seen, and neither is your enemy. I have heard tales, some of Ribbajacks who turned on their creators because they could not take the one whom the creator named. A Ribbajack never takes more than one victim. It is the fate of the Ribbajack, and the one it takes, to disappear from the world of men.”

  Pretty scary stuff, eh, Peterkin? But your dad wasn’t about to believe all that mumbo-jumbo, and neither should you, old chap. Tell you what I did. I had the herdsman clapped in prison for five years. Then I confiscated all his cattle and had them paid to the carpenter’s family as compensation. That’s British justice for you, tempered by the local traditions, of course.

  But enough of Jibbaracks, old fellow. Keep your shoulder to the wheel, and your nose to the grindstone. Make your mother and me proud of you when next we meet. Though the way things are out here, heaven knows when that will be. Ours not to reason why, etc.

  Keep smiling. Toodle pip and all that.

  Yr Pater.

  When Soames finished reading, Archibald snatched the letter and pocketed it, snarling, “Got any more stuff about the Ribbajack?”

  Soames shook his head. “Nothing, I’m afraid, it was only mentioned in that one letter. I say, Smifft, can I have my letter back? I keep everything my parents write. Though it’s not very much, they’re always very busy, you see.”

  Archibald Smifft snarled at him, “No, you can’t, I want to read it again for myself. I’ve got work to do now, so beat it, you two.”

  Wilto
n and Soames fled the dormitory, relieved that their ordeal was over. Soames felt lucky to have got away with just the loss of a letter, Wilton ruing the fact that he had revealed his fear of the dark. As they emerged onto the driveway, he whispered to his pal, “I say, Peterkin, it looks like Smifft is cooking something pretty horrible up, what d’you think?”

  Soames thrust both hands into his blazer pockets. “Rather, he’s up to some wickedness, I’m sure. I don’t like it one little bit. One thing’s certain, though, we can’t be left alone in that dorm with Smifft for almost two months’ summer hols. How much money have you got, chum?”

  Wilton frowned. “In my money box there’s two fivers from my parents last Christmas. What do we need money for?”

  Soames did some quick calculating. “I’ve got six pounds from my people last birthday, and a ten-bob note left from my allowance. What d’you say we go and stay at my aunt Adelaide’s place for the recess? It’s up in Yorkshire, at Harrogate. Come on, let’s take a walk down to the post office, I’ll give her a ring.” He broke into a trot. Wilton ran to keep up with him.

  “What about me, d’you think she’ll mind terribly?”

  His friend chuckled. “What, Aunt Addie? Not a bit, old man. She’s half deaf and totally nutty. Lives alone, except for a cook and gardener, in a great rambling place up by the moors. She’s got loads of cats, and keeps geese, too. We’ll be safe from Smifft up there for the summer. Are you game?”

  Wilton felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his young heart. “Rather! Lead on, old chap, I’d sooner be marooned on the ocean in a bathtub than be stuck with that bounder Smifft for the hols!”

  Less than an hour later, both boys skipped blithely out of the telephone box. Soames rubbed his hands together joyfully.

  “Here we are, all set to go. There’s a train for Harrogate at seven-ten this evening, should get us in about ten. Aunt Addie is sending old Jenkins the gardener to pick us up in the car. All we’ve got to do is pack a case each. The dreaded Smifft shouldn’t even notice we’re gone, you know how he is when he’s swotting up a foul new scheme. Come on, race you back!”

  The school chaplain of Duke Crostacious the Inviolate was Reverend Rodney Miller, a bluff, hearty old fellow. He was known by several nicknames: the Sky Pilot, Big Dusty, Rev, or the Padre. This was owing to his long service with the King’s Lancashire Rifle Regiment. He had spent many years in India, Burma and Bhutan as Padre to the soldiers. Rev. Miller stood well over six feet tall, a portly, congenial figure with a fiery complexion and white bushy eyebrows. He had an extensive fund of stories about life in the far-flung outposts of empire—it had been said that he could bore the legs off a table with them.

  Rev. Miller sat in the headmaster’s study, taking tea with Mrs. Twogg and Mr. Plother. Helping himself to slices of Dundee cake and Bath Oliver biscuits, washed down with copius amounts of Darjeeling tea, he listened to them holding forth on the subject of Archibald Smifft—the boy’s unhealthy fascination with occult magic and the forbidden arts. The matron explained about the materials they had discovered beneath the bed and the possible atrocities Smifft could wreak upon both them and the school. The headmaster recounted the incident of the cockroaches and flies. Rev. Miller sucked the chocolate from a Bath Oliver, and dunked it in his tea reflectively.

  “Ah, yes, the old jiggery pokery, y’know. Saw quite a bit of it for m’self out on the subcontinent, India and all that. By Jove, watched a chap climb up a rope and vanish into thin air. Amazing! Where the dickens he went to, I’ll never know. Another time I saw a fakir take a pair of live scorpions—d’you know what he did with ’em, eh?”

  The matron poured more tea, remarking primly, “I’m sure we’d shudder to think, Reverend. However, this isn’t getting us anywhere with the Smifft problem, don’t you agree, Headmaster?”

  Mr. Plother blinked over the rim of his Crown Derby teacup. “Er, precisely, Mrs. Twogg, the boy is definitely involved in some murky matters. I mean, how d’you explain a cloud of flies swarming around my head, Padre?”

  The chaplain picked a few crumbs from his ample stomach. “Huh, flies, y’say, I could do that. Slap a dab of honey on my head. Flies’d flock to it. A few wasps and a bee or two, as well, I should imagine, eh?”

  The matron pursed her lips. “Really, Reverend, I don’t consider this a fit subject for humour. You have been invited here to give assistance in what we think is a serious matter!”

  Rev. Miller heaved himself out of the creaking armchair. He sighed regretfully at the empty cake stand. “Right you are, marm, suppose I’d better go and have a few words with the young scamp. What’s the chap’s name, Smithers?”

  Mrs. Twogg’s chins wobbled as she snapped out the name. “Smifft. Archibald Smifft. You remember him from Christmas term, surely!”

  The chaplain’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Good Lord, that fellow? Wasn’t he the rogue who sabotaged my incense burner with stink bombs at the chapel service? Short, grubby cove, with his eyes too close together? Never liked boys with close-together eyes, y’know. Reminds me of a gunnery corporal I served with at Hyderabad, furtive little blighter. Caught him one time in the officers’ mess, had half a bottle of Madeira and some vindaloo curry powder. You’ll never guess what the scallywag was up to—”

  The matron interrupted him abruptly. “Smifft!”

  Rev. Miller recalled his errand. “Eh, what? Oh, yes, I’ll go and have a talk with Master Smithers. No time like the present!”

  Archibald Smifft lay flat on his bed, exerting all his mental powers to produce an image of how a Ribbajack might look. He ignored the muffled rummaging of Wilton and Soames on the other side of his barricade, for they could be dealt with later. His Ribbajack was all-important. The description penned by Soames’s father sounded fairly good. But Archibald had decided it needed some adjustments to suit his macabre taste. A crocodile’s body, he would keep that feature. Three eyes? No, his would have just one big eye, a disgusting red runny one. Then there was the question of the arms. What if they were long, right down to its feet, hairy like a gorilla’s, and studded with suckers, similar to an octopus’s tentacles? The long, sharp teeth sounded a bit humdrum. Suppose it had a feathered head and a great hooked parrot beak, which could rip and tear and chop? Perfect! It would be his own personal and original Ribbajack.

  Archibald’s train of thought was broken by someone knocking on the door outside his den. He attempted to dismiss it at this crucial stage of his image-making. However, it was not about to cease, in fact the knocking doubled in volume and insistence, then a voice.

  “Come on, young man, I know you’re in there. Met two of your pals on the corridor below on their way out, they told me. Listen, Smithers, if you don’t open this door pretty sharply, I’ll bring my old service pistol and blow the lock off. D’you hear me, Smithers?”

  Rev. Miller put his ear to the door just as it opened. He practically fell in on top of a scowling, ill-tempered boy. (This would have solved the problem neatly, as the Rev. weighed in at somewhere around two and a half hundred pounds. What a lark! Man of the cloth flattens young schoolboy by accident.) Smiling at the thought, the chaplain took the jovial approach. He winked com panionably at the irate boy. “What ho, young Smithers, come to have a friendly word with you. At the headmaster’s and matron’s request, of course. Well, aren’t you going to ask the old Sky Pilot in, eh?”

  Stiff-legged, Archibald backed off to sit on his bed. “Name’s Smifft, not Smithers. Can’t stop you coming in if you want to.”

  Striding into the den, the chaplain planted himself firmly on the bedside chair. “Ah, that’s more the ticket!”

  Archibald glared murderously at the big, portly man. “No, it’s not, you’ve just sat on Jasper and squashed him.”

  Rev. Miller rose in alarm. “Jasper, who’s Jasper?”

  Archibald craned his head to view the seat of the chaplain’s trousers. “Jasper was my best lizard, I’ve had him all term. Now you’ve killed him with your big, fat b
ottom.”

  Taking his handkerchief and a nearby English textbook, Rev. Miller brushed the flattened remains of Jasper onto the floor. “My dear boy, forgive me. I’m most dreadfully sorry. Poor Jasper, I’ll put him in the wastepaper basket.”

  Jumping from the bed, Archibald gathered up the dead lizard. He shot the chaplain a glare that would have wilted a nettle. “I’ll keep him for my spells. Tongue, skin or tail of lizard always comes in useful. Not many lizards about lately.”

  The chaplain looked on as the boy deposited Jasper’s carcass in a jar, and wrote on the label. “Spells, eh? Jolly old magic ones, I’ll bet, eh?”

  Archibald stowed the jar beneath his bed. “Mind your own business, my spells are private.”

  Chuckling, the Rev bent his head, trying to peer under the bed. “What are you keeping under here, m’lad? Lots of icky schoolboy stuff probably. Boiled tadpoles, fried worms and whatnot. Hohoho, you young rip!”

  His jollity was cut short by a grubby, black-nailed finger waving threateningly under his nose. “Listen, fattie, make yourself scarce before I get mad!”

  Rev. Miller had dealt with toughened soldiers in the past. He was not about to be intimidated by a snotty-nosed boy. “Now see here, Smithers, don’t you dare take that tone with me. Show a bit of respect for your school chaplain, m’boy!”

  Archibald’s lip curled scornfully. “Respect? Get out of my dormitory, you old windbag. Go on, beat it, or I’ll make you sorry you ever came in here!”

  Rev. Miller stood up, then he stooped until their eyes met. “Will you indeed? I suppose you’ll surround my head with flies, or slip a few cockroaches into my pocket, eh? Oh, don’t worry, m’lad, I’ve heard all about what you did to the matron and the headmaster. That nonsense won’t work with me!”